back, like the pictures of Napoleon, and repeated, solemnly,
"I am Schlorge the Koopf, King of Dimplesmiths.
"Under the gright Gugollaph-tree The Dimplesmithy stands; The smith is harder than the sea And softer than the lands; He mends cheek-dimples frank and free, But will not work on hands."
And as soon as he had finished he started wildly down the path again, shouting back, "Bring 'em to the shop!"
Sara sat looking down the path, then at the dimples in her hand. "Well," she said aloud, "I'm glad they're cheek-dimples, anyhow. But what in the world shall I do about the onions?"
"What in Zeelup," corrected the Teacup gently, counting her stitches. "Milder than swearing, my dear, more becoming, and quite as effective."
Sara wanted to tell her she wasn't swearing, but just at that moment the wife of the Snimmy remarked, with some disgust in her voice,
"Well, if you'd of asked me sooner, I could of told you. I have them in the sugar-bowl, of course. Do you suppo